The Trivial Side of Love
by Stormrose Dewleaf
Summary: Fantasy AU. Lestrade wants John Watson. Part of occupying a minor position in Lestrade's court is obtaining what Lestrade wants. (Lestrade/John, Mystrade, Johnlock. Warnings for dubcon/kidnapping.)
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:**

Completely un-beta'd, so apologies for anything I overlooked. Written for Valeria2067's Tumblr prompt about Mycroft kidnapping John for Lestrade.

The ranks of nobility in this universe don't really fit any real-life models; it's closer to a model that I'm developing for my own worlds from my original works. Lestrade is a nobleman with a court, but he's not a king. This fic was developed out of an original story, so I've kept the fantasy setting. Lestrade and John are human, Mycroft and Sherlock are not.

* * *

Lord Gregory Lestrade was sulking.

While they weren't as impressive as the moods he'd seen his own brother in, Mycroft found Lestrade's sulks far more disconcerting than Sherlock's. It had everything to do with the fact that a man of Lestrade's bearing looked out of place sprawled out on his custom settee with a furrowed brow marring the quiet, strong composition of his face, and nothing to do with the fact that Mycroft found himself more than a little fond of the nobleman than one would expect a member of the court to be. (Which was not a fact at all, because Mycroft was _not_ more fond of Lestrade than was appropriate, no matter what the young library-keeper Molly might imply with ill-contained glee. And he most certainly did _not_ wax poetic when talking about his master to others.)

"Is there anything I can do for you, sire?" asked Mycroft. Lestrade's bad moods had decreased in frequency over the last few years, and Mycroft would be damned if he allowed them to return. He would do whatever it took to keep Lestrade in good humour, just as he had after the discovery of numerous affairs the (former) lady of the manor had been involved in.

"There's nothing anyone can do," said Lestrade petulantly, scowling at the high ceiling. "Not all problems can be fixed as easily as pouring a cup of tea, Holmes, as much as you might like to think so." Sunlight and shadows from the glass door leading to the balcony played over his face, throwing the angles of his face into sharper detail.

"...Would you like some tea?" asked Mycroft. If he could get Lestrade to sit up and talk over tea, he might be able to get to the cause of the current sulk.

"No. Yes. I don't know," said Lestrade irritably, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into the velvety cushioning. Mycroft exited the room and came back soon after with a tray he set on the table in front of the settee and began pouring. Lestrade rolled over again and sat up, running his fingers through the dark silver of his hair. "I don't know what to do. I'm at a complete loss." Mycroft said nothing, but set a cup in front of Lestrade. Lestrade took a sip before sighing. "I wish I knew why love has to be so complicated."

Only years of practising keeping his composure kept Mycroft from spilling the tea he was pouring for himself. This didn't sound good at all. "My lord?"

Lestrade set his cup down before leaning back against the settee, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles. One arm draped over the back of the sofa, pulling his shirt taut against his chest. Mycroft almost bit his lower lip, but caught himself last moment and smoothed down his own shirt before picking up his cup. Lestrade leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Have you ever wanted someone you couldn't have?"

"I think almost everyone does at some point in their lives, sire," said Mycroft. "Is there...someone you're fond of?" Mycroft needed a name before he could decide on his next move. The idea of Lestrade pining after someone didn't sound good at all - he had business matters to attend to, after all, and a lover would only complicate things - but if left to his own devices, the pining would be just as distracting. So long as the name Lestrade gave him wasn't someone dangerous to his well-being or his rule, Mycroft would do whatever he could. Pulling strings was a specialty of his, after all. "Perhaps this person isn't as unattainable as you may think."

"No...perhaps not," said Lestrade, sounding as if an idea had just occurred to him. He straightened up, looking at Mycroft. "In fact," he said, the pitch of his voice lowering, "I think you could be very helpful indeed, Holmes." Hints of a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth, his eyes brightening.

Mycroft came very close to outright staring. "Could I, sire?" he asked, keeping his voice level. Inwardly, his heart rate betrayed his composure. He had been privy to this particularly intense stare of Lestrade's only a few times in the past; he had seen it at the beginnings of Lestrade's courtship with his wife, and once or twice he imagined he had seen it directed at him when Lestrade thought he wasn't looking. He had long since come to associate it with Lestrade thinking eagerly of something he wanted that he knew he was about to get. And now here it was again, directed at him across afternoon tea.

"You could," said Lestrade, and Mycroft thought his voice sounded almost like a purr. "You could be just the man I want."

Mycroft swallowed hard. He was certain the flush he could feel threatening to creep up his face had everything to do with the warm sun and nothing to do with Lestrade's statements. He made a mental note to get up in a moment and push the door ajar to let the breeze in. "I'll be more than happy to do whatever I can, my lord."

Lestrade's demeanour brightened further. "Excellent," he said (in what was most definitely a purr). "Holmes...I want you to bring me John Watson."

Lord Gregory Lestrade had finished sulking. Mycroft Holmes had just begun.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes was sulking.

It was hardly a rare occurrence, but that didn't make it any easier to put up with. As it was, John would have much rather had a lot _less_ practise dealing with Sherlock's moods. "What have you got to say for yourself?" he demanded, holding a charred throw pillow in front of Sherlock and giving it a little shake to emphasize the object of his displeasure. "I wasn't out of the room ten minutes."

Sherlock glanced at it with disinterest before returning to his curled-up position on the sofa. "I was practising."

"You were p - Sherlock!" spluttered John. "That's the third one in two weeks! Mrs. Hudson is going to have a fit! And just how much practise does a dragon need to be able to play with fire a little less destructively?"

"I," said Sherlock, turning his head to look up at John again, this time with an insulted expression, "am not a dragon. I am a lialin."

"You were born with scales, wings, and an innate ability to wreak havoc using manipulation of the elements, you git," said John, dropping the remains of the pillow on Sherlock's face. "You're a dragon. Though I suppose the wreaking havoc bit is more your own special gift."

"We're far more elegant than dragons," said Sherlock, shoving the pillow to the floor and finally sitting up (in order, John assumed, to glare at him more impressively), "and far more intelligent than those lumbering _creatures_." He tugged at the collar of his dressing gown with both hands to straighten it. "For one, I can shift my form into the shape you see before you. And scales and wings are not the sole defining characteristics of dragons."

"If you say so," said John, sitting in his armchair and picking up the book he had left on the arm of it. "Modesty and self-control certainly aren't the defining characteristics of a Sherlock."

"Do stick to healing and writing, John," said Sherlock with a sniff. "Comedy isn't your strong suit."

John just smiled, settling in with his book. Sherlock began pacing the room, but didn't begin pestering John as he was wont to do when his moods soured further. Deciding Sherlock was only a little bored and not to the point of requiring intervention after the demise of the pillow, John tuned him out so he could read in peace.

As it turned out, it wasn't that Sherlock wasn't dangerously bored. Rather, he seemed to have spontaneously changed his coping methods.

"D'you think I should check on Mrs. Hudson?" asked John absently, turning a page. "She doesn't normally burn things when she's cooki - _Sherlock what the hell do you think you're doing!_"

Sherlock glanced up from where he was stretched out on the floor on his stomach, unperturbed by John's horrified expression. Three pillows were laid out in front of him, meeting the same fate as their companion. Two were smouldering and flames consumed the tasselled edges of the middle one. "I'm testing the burn rate of different materials," he answered in his 'you have eyes, what does it look like I'm doing' tone of voice.

"Extinguish them, now," demanded John. Sherlock's mouth tightened, but he did as he was asked without argument. "You can't go around setting things on fire just because you're bored."

"Why can't I? It's my house. They're my pillows." He was in full sulk mode now, and John knew he'd have to tread carefully if he wanted to avoid a full-blown argument (though tantrum would be a more accurate description).

John took a deep breath, calming himself. "I live here too. And I'm aware they're your pillows, but it's dangerous to - "

"It's a fully controlled burn," interrupted Sherlock. "And I dampened the carpet before I started."

"You dampened the carpet," repeated John. He rubbed his face with both hands, pressing his fingers against his eyelids and taking another deep breath, hoping the watery carpet wouldn't mildew. "Sherlock, why don't you see if anyone has a job for you? Surely someone somewhere has gone missing or lost something or had something stolen."

"Everyone has jobs for me," said Sherlock. He'd rolled onto his back and was sprawled out, looking as if he couldn't be bothered to move for anything, emergency or not. "Most of their letters are begging me to find some buried treasure they're convinced exist."

"So help them find it or prove it doesn't exist."

"Boring." He sprang to his feet and resumed pacing. "They're all so _boring_, John! Predicable! It's not worth my time. And don't," he said as John opened his mouth, "tell me that it would at least be something for me to do. It would do absolutely nothing to occupy my mind. Don't you understand how foolish those quests are? Imagine, John, you and I could go down to Gary and Billy's pub tonight, and talk between ourselves over a few drinks. Say we start talking about my brother, and how he told me Lestrade was planning a few renovations."

"But Lord Lestrade isn't planning any renovations s'far as we know," said John, frowning.

"I know that," snapped Sherlock. "I said imagine. I'm getting to my point if you would use that funny little human brain of yours and just _listen_." John said nothing, only tightening his lips and scratching the back of his neck a moment before looking back up at Sherlock, who continued his scenario. "I mention that Lestrade is planning to have some work done, but that they're concerned it would interfere with where his great grandfather was suspected to have buried a vast chunk of his fortune in the gardens to hide how rich he really was. A couple of people overhear us, and before you know it everyone from here to Lake Moana will say of course they know the ancient story of the lost Lestrade fortune."

"It's not a very believable story," said John.

"Of course it isn't," said Sherlock impatiently. "But they're not going to care. Every other buried treasure story is exactly the same; illogical, pointless, and utterly boring. All it takes is one overheard story, especially if that Fletcher boy heard it, and every treasure hunter and adventurer in the realm would be coming out trying to sneak in and dig holes all over Lestrade's garden - oh. Oh, that could be amusing indeed."

"What could?" asked John carefully, unsure about the way Sherlock had suddenly stopped ranting and started looking like someone had just handed him the case of the century.

"All it takes is one overheard story," repeated Sherlock gleefully. "Although in reality it would take a story with a little more sustenance, and some planning..." He swept out of the room, no doubt off to concoct the same scenario he had just used to illustrate his point. John sighed and picked up his book again, deciding to deal with the pillow remains - and Sherlock - later. He didn't know Lestrade very well, though Sherlock had a long history with him, and he was fond enough of him to step in and put a stop to any plans Sherlock had to cause trouble for the man.

"I'm a little surprised he hasn't yet remembered that I can easily put a stop to any rumours he tries to start about my employer."

"By the spirits, Mycroft," John swore, letting out the breath Mycroft's sudden appearance had startled him into holding. "Why are you - how did you get in?"

Mycroft moved forward from where he had been standing by the window a little behind John, just out of his peripheral vision. "Oh, it's really not all that difficult." The same faint markings John had seen around Sherlock's neck were on Mycroft's, and they glowed lightly before fading back to near-invisibility. "How are you, John?"

"Fine, I'm fine," said John, putting his bookmark back between the pages. "Sherlock's gone to his study, as you can see. Why are you here?"

"I'm on an errand," said Mycroft, sitting across from John. "I'm here to extend an invitation."

"An invitation?" asked John, raising an eyebrow. "An invitation to what? Where would I be going that you don't want to mention it in front of Sherlock?"

"Where, not what, John," said Mycroft. "It's not to an event. More of a little vacation, really. Lord Lestrade would like you to come for a visit, without Sherlock. A sort of...extended stay."

John laughed. "Well, you can tell him thank you, but I really can't. Sherlock gets into enough trouble when I _am_ around, as you can see," he said, motioning towards the pillow remains on the floor. "I really don't know how he managed before I came along after he stopped living with you."

Mycroft smiled, but something about the expression made John's stomach shift (and not in the same way Sherlock's smile did). "Isn't language a funny thing, John? I know I said invitation, and the word implies a question awaiting a response, but I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice about your answer."

John frowned as Mycroft stood. "What do you mean, I don't have a choice?"

Mycroft moved around the coffee table and John tensed, getting ready to move quickly if need be. "Sherlock will get along just fine without you for a while, Doctor Watson."


End file.
